


Rat the Companion

by AliNasweter



Series: It All Started With a Rat [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Chapter 5 and 6, Charlotte POV, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Charlotte, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Soft Charles, Spoilers, Still Could Be Continued, Tenderness, Worried Charles Smith, protective Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliNasweter/pseuds/AliNasweter
Summary: The continuation of Rat the Judge where Arthur collapsed in Charlotte's house. The person who is more suitable for the task of nursing him back to health is here now. Everything is going to be okay.Who would have thought having two criminals in the house would turn out to be such a pleasant experience?But they both need to take care of some things Charlotte doesn't understand. She hopes that the rat won't be the only companion she will be left with in the end.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan & Charlotte Balfour, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: It All Started With a Rat [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667326
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	Rat the Companion

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Čeština available: [Krysa společník](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410363) by [AliNasweter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliNasweter/pseuds/AliNasweter)



She almost wanted to laugh when she noticed Charles couldn’t help but touch Arthur’s hair as well. But it wasn’t unsure or shy, it was a practiced move and she stopped in the doorway, sudden realization washing over her.

The man was sitting on the bed where Arthur kept gripping the blanket she had given him a few days ago. His face and hair were a bit damp from the wet towel, now lying on the pillow next to Arthur’s head. Charles hummed something, maybe a greeting, or something else, she had no idea. That man was more like a bear, and the sound he’d made instead of a clear voice seemed to soothe Arthur. She stood there, frozen in time, overcome by another wave of unexpected protectiveness. She threw away the last of the doubts about the newcomer at the moment she noticed that Arthur welcomed him without even knowing so.

Charles had large hands, sure and quick, and surprisingly gentle. The fingers combing through Arthur’s hair were achingly tender and Charlotte almost choked up when she saw Arthur lean into that touch. Always leaning away when conscious, always reaching out when unconscious, be it someone’s hands or skirts.

“You gave me quite a fright,” she heard suddenly, still too quiet for her to be sure she’d heard correctly. “I don’t think there is much to do, miss,” the man continued without looking over at her, obviously knowing she had been standing behind him like a fool. “This happens more frequently now and we get often worried it will overcome him when he is somewhere we have no way of finding him.” He paused and finally turned around. “I am happy that he had been lucky this time,” and it was not a thank you, not in words at least, but she couldn’t remember when was the last time someone looked at her with such gratitude. That man seemed to use words only to please people too dense to understand his expressive eyes.

She cleared her throat. “Ah, I owe him a lot, mister,” she said, sheepishly. “He saved my life. Taught me to hunt and shoot. I actually hit a bottle,” she blurted out. “All because of that stupid rat,” she added because her filter stopped working. She sighed at her own words, not noticing that small curve of Charles’ lips. “You are welcome here as long as you both need to stay, of course. I don’t think he is fit to travel anyway, I am just sorry I am not equipped for something like this…”

He made a small humming sound again, and she realized she found it endearing in a way.

Oh. So she was _still_ hopeless.

“That’s okay, miss. I’ll pick up some herbs that will help his throat a bit. As I said, it’s not a condition we could really do something about. All we can do for him is to try to cool him down, and let him rest.”

“That I can do,” she assured him, still standing in the doorway. Then she promptly turned around and went for another bowl of fresh water. She took the empty bucket she’d left by the doorway and put it on the table so Charles could fill it up later. She could do it for herself, but maybe she just wanted to feel a man’s presence in this house again. Maybe she wanted to watch somebody else to bring water and chop the wood. When she returned, Charles had the sleeves of his blue shirt up to his elbows and Arthur’s shirt was open enough to show his collarbones and a small patch of the breastbone. She didn’t dare to go that far. Charles thanked her for the fresh water, then wet the cloth and very carefully tried to wipe Arthur’s brow, still too hot. He used it to dampen his chapped lips a bit, and that seemed to raise Arthur from the dead. His eyes fluttered open and he looked around, seemingly lucid.

He frowned in confusion when he noticed his nurse’s hands were larger than he remembered. Then he slowly turned his head and squinted at Charlotte behind Charles’ back. He let out a relieved breath and Charlotte mirrored that before she could stop herself. It was quite a while since she’d seen some sense in those blue eyes.

“Fancy see’mmnher’,” Arthur tried to say his greetings. Charlotte breathed out a little laugh at the first sign of the man she had met a few weeks ago, while Charles just sighed. Charlotte expected him to lean back a bit, maybe even stop the washing, get off the bed, put her to work again. Once she would have expected Arthur asking her to do it instead, getting flustered at being mothered by a friend. But Arthur forgot about her the moment he recognized his friend, and she just stood there, watching them, feeling like an intruder.

Charles was in no way ashamed of his gentle hands, or the way his shoulders slumped in relief.

“Mmhhm,” he replied. They deserved each other, honestly. “Next time I’ll just cover your tracks and go back to camp, you fool,” he added. Arthur probably went for a dramatic gasp but the only thing he could get out of himself was a painful cough. Charles seemed to wince at that even though Charlotte couldn’t be really sure from that angle. “Don’t,” he said, laying his hand over Arthur’s ribs. The rattling sound of his lungs went right through his palm and he almost flinched again.

Arthur just grinned. “That easy is it,” he got out just in time to let another coughing fit overcome him. Charles put something she could tell was a very strong salve on the small part of a naked skin just underneath the collarbones, and Arthur grimaced. “Didn’t know Rains Fall gave it to you for safekeeping,” he wheezed out, his eyebrows raised. He sagged into the pillow more though, breathing in the strong scent. Charlotte couldn’t tell what herbs were in it but it must have worked wonders.

“I asked him to show me,” Charles replied. They could make sense only to each other, she noted to herself with a fond smile. “And stop talking,” he added, but she could swear there was a smile in his voice, as hard as he tried to look disapproving. And she feared, for a moment, Arthur would continue ribbing him but then she noticed his shaking arm reaching out, grabbing Charles’ forearm and squeezing it weakly, wordless thanks. She left the room and sat down, feeling completely drained. She didn’t realize she had been so tense all this time, or that Charles’ arrival made that tension fade a bit. Maybe he took the bigger part of it.

After a few sips of herbal tea he’d managed to swallow and actually keep down, Arthur was now sleeping and Charles finally got up to join her in the kitchen. After stepping out of the room, he crouched a bit, again the man by the trees too afraid to lower his hands in case he got shot for it. As if he realized that without Arthur there was nothing between them, nothing to keep him busy. He faltered at the doorstep, hesitation palpable. She had a plate ready for him.

“Please,” she said, keeping it simple, gesturing toward the chair in front of her. “I believe you are in no rush to leave.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” he answered, treading lightly, going over to the chair with inaudible steps. She made sure to not flinch at the sight. He looked even bigger in her small kitchen but she had to believe she would come out of this alive.

He didn’t look as uncomfortable in his silence as she felt. He ate the food she had given him, politely complimenting but mostly keeping to himself. She tried to look elsewhere but once again – she was only human. And she was curious. She tapped her fingers on the table, bit her lower lip, then thought better of it and shook her head in the hope it would guide the sense back to her brain. That little drama seemed to attract the man’s attention. He looked up from his plate, watching her. It actually startled her a bit, so used to her loneliness, to Arthur’s avoiding eyes, that now she had somebody’s full attention, she had no idea what to do with it.

“I am sorry,” she laughed a bit, nervously, then dropped her gaze to her own plate. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“I am sorry,” Charles said suddenly and Charlotte looked up again, narrowing her eyes. “I didn’t ask for your name and just barreled into your home like an animal.”

“Ah,” she let out a soft laugh, realizing what the man was trying to do. “I am Charlotte. Charlotte Balfour – hello,” she waved at him from across the table.

“Charles Smith,” he nodded, his eyes still so warm and kind. “Just Charles. I wanted to thank you for…”

“There’s no need, Charles,” she interrupted him, frowning a little. “It was the least I could do for Arthur.” He seemed a bit lost at that. She mercilessly took everything he had prepared to tell her and threw it in his face to see if he could do better than that. “You don’t have to keep me company,” she added, hiding her growing smile in her cup, trying to sip her tea without burning her tongue. “You both are men of few words and you both are terribly uncomfortable when it looks like I want to drag a conversation out of you. I noticed you prefer listening. And humming,” she said with her mouth only inches from the tea, and promptly burned her tongue.

It was worth it, her smile got out of control by that time.

Charles seemed to be at an even bigger loss now. Genuinely confused at her remark about humming, he tilted his head to the side, knitting his brows in concentration, maybe trying to come up with anything he could say to that, unaware of Charlotte’s sparkling eyes.

“Huh,” he said and she burst out laughing. Her hand shot out to cover her mouth immediately, startled by the sudden bubble of laughter in her belly, fighting its way through her throat. She hadn’t felt that for weeks and she forgot how… beautiful it was. Charles understood and gave her one of his little smiles. He stopped pretending he wasn’t looking at the door to Arthur’s room and excused himself, grateful she didn’t insist on his presence.

She nodded at him and stayed there, watching him leave the kitchen and disappear in the room. When did she start thinking of that room as Arthur’s?

Then she narrowed her eyes once more, annoyance taking over her features. She slowly turned her head toward the cupboards, recognizing the ominous sounds.

“You stupid cheeky rat,” she whispered. “I swear I’ll train shooting just to get you.”

***

Charles took a while to adjust to the dim light of the room, only a small lantern throwing orange halo over the bed. The light didn’t flatter Arthur in any way. He looked incredibly pale as if death had already taken him, as if the shadows on the walls belonged to Her, patiently waiting for Arthur’s last breath, soothing him with promises of meeting his loved ones who had left this world before their time. Charles knew that would eventually happen, and he was torn between wanting to be there when it happens and wanting to be as far away as possible. He wanted to feel the warmth of Arthur’s life and cherish it for as long as he could, but he didn’t think he would stand to feel the coldness taking its place after. There was a hitch in Arthur’s breath, then a small sluggish movement. Charles kept his steps slow and small, to give Arthur time to recognize him in the darkness. Arthur gave him a smile.

“You found yourself quite a place,” Charles said, his voice calm and quiet, a small part of the darkness. He sat on the bed, absurdly glad there was no chair in the room. “Charlotte is a good woman.”

“That sounds like a blessing,” Arthur replied, his voice gruff from sleepiness, not the coughing. He would recover this time.

“And that sounds very accusing.”

“It was meant to,” Arthur frowned at him, foolishly trying to sit up. “I didn’t come here to stay. I heard crying and came here to see if I could help, for godssake, Charles.”

“And yet you insist you are not a good man,” Charles replied smoothly, reaching for the damp cloth and smacking it on Arthur’s forehead with enough force to startle a laugh out of him.

“Ah,” he gave up on his sitting act and leaned back into the pillow again. “Well. I ain’t. There’s only one thing I _am_ , mister Smith, and that is ashamed. I just collapsed on that poor woman and now I’m taking up her bed. Good thing you’re here. We need to go.”

“Sure,” Charles hummed, taking the cloth back. “Just saddle your horse and we’re on our way.” He actually took a moment to enjoy the short terrified look Arthur didn’t manage to hide quickly enough. Then the man just glared at him, not appreciating the sarcasm he had grown so fond of.

“Funny,” he scoffed.

“Hilarious,” Charles nodded, satisfied. As expected, Arthur looked away first, fumbling with the sheets. “You need to get some rest. And I assure you, you won’t get that in the camp. Javier’s… he’s been rather difficult lately, trying to get the rise out of John and me. The women are… they all are very nervous. It’s getting worse and you are in no shape to face that. Stay and rest.”

Arthur looked up at that. “You’re leaving?” he asked, alarmed.

“I think I should,” Charles admitted, looking over his shoulder, knowing very well the door was closed properly but still making sure. “I won’t tell anyone. Just say one word and you are free of all that mess.” He knew it was useless, but he’d promised himself he would try.

“You know I can’t do that. I won’t. This is my mess, Charles. I need to figure it out. Or at least get as many people out of it as I can manage.”

“I could do that instead.”

“It’s my responsibility. My own _damn plan_ ,” he gritted his teeth, hard. The cough that came was almost a relief and he buried deeper into the pillow. “I can’t attach myself to anyone who would need me after all this. I need to take care of my family first, then I can die. It’s as you said. I’m making amends. This poor woman deserves so much better.”

“She would let you stay if you asked,” Charles said once again as if Arthur hadn’t heard him for the first time.

“I ain’t making her dig another grave, Charles. She’s good on her own. And letting you clean up my mess? For someone who insists I’m a good man you sure don’t think very highly of me.”

Charles didn’t let that rile him up, Arthur so obviously looking for somebody to fight with, let off some steam, the stress. As usual, Charles was going to disappoint him. He sighed, looked down on the cloth he had dumped in a bowl of water and picked it up.

“I worry,” he said, simply, truthfully.

“Don’t we all,” Arthur scoffed, still watching him, perhaps looking for any signs Charles would take the bait after all. Charles wrung the towel and ignored Arthur’s arm he had raised to take it from him. He put the cloth on Arthur’s forehead once more, held it there with his fingers.

“I’ll stay and wait until you feel good enough to travel. Then we’ll go back home.”

Arthur was quiet, letting his arm fall back into the sheets.

“Home,” he said, quietly, refusing to avoid his friend’s eyes this time. He looked into them and stood his ground, metaphorically speaking. “Is it home for you, Charles? Why haven’t you left already?” There was a small drop of water running down his cheek and he scrunched his nose.

“Do you want me to leave?” Charles huffed, his palm still on the cloth, on Arthur’s head, his memories back in Colter and his heart deciding between falling to his gut or flying up to his throat.

“Of course not. But I wouldn’t blame you. You should… you don’t deserve this shit. I need to get John out of this. ‘Cause he still doesn’t understand his family is elsewhere now. I need to get him out and then deal with Dutch. But you can go and never look back. Just pretend it was a bad dream.”

The reason for his stay asked him to leave. This could get awkward very quickly.

“I want to help a friend,” Charles shrugged and frowned when he could already feel the heat of Arthur’s fever seeping through the cloth and going all the way to his palm. Still too high, still too dangerous. “You are my friend and you sure as hell are in need of help.”

Arthur was sleeping already.

It took them a few more days and Charles began to wonder if he would see a familiar figure hovering near the house, going after his traces he had left on his way to find Arthur. But Javier was nowhere to be seen, and Charles wasn’t really surprised, not after all the things he’d had to listen to in the last few days.

When Arthur was sleeping, Charles was trying to keep to himself, not wanting to take up any more space in the house, feeling too big in the small kitchen. Charlotte smiled at him and greeted him every morning, helped him to take care of Arthur. He smiled at her ramblings and kept himself busy outside the house, chopping the wood, taking care of needed repairs. The rat had startled him when he went to look for an ax into the old shack behind the house, and Charlotte laughed at him.

He was happy to pay the lady at least in some way for her kindness. So when Arthur’s fever broke, he could actually hold down solid food and his sleep was restful for a change, Charles sat in the kitchen, feeling lighter somehow. Charlotte joined him with a cup of tea, then brought a journal and a pen. When Charles looked up at her in question, she did everything in her power to not stutter because _this was really stupid_ , but who could blame her?

“I was wondering… I saw you making all the salves and the tea, and it actually helped Arthur a great deal. So… would you mind teaching me, Charles? I would like to be a little less… useless next time. Not that I would expect anything like this to happen again, just… uh, the doctor is far and… someone out there could need a hand one day.”

So the next morning he had made sure Arthur would survive on his own for a while and took her to the woods, showing her the herbs, picking some of them to dry them and put into a book. Those they couldn’t find he tried to describe as well as he could.

That evening Charlotte found herself in a very pleasant company, making her all warm and cozy and so, so very fond. Arthur, still pale but in a good mood, sitting on a chair to her left, Charles sitting on the opposite of her with his back to the door. She was sipping her tea and hiding her amusement at their bickering over the right color for Alaskan Ginseng.

“Those are not even anywhere near this place,” Charles said, and Arthur only took the red crayon and squinted at Charlotte’s journal, determined to make the plant justice. She noticed he had some help from his own journal, and it made her almost cry, seeing the man focusing on that small fragile craft, his hands suddenly so careful and his movements so tender, not out of unsureness but love. She knew she could take a look at Charles and he wouldn’t notice, as caught up in watching the act as she was.

And when Arthur turned a few pages back to ponder if she needed to have an orchid in her collection as well (just for the sake of completing it as he had no idea about any good effects), she could see the small drawings of horses, ducks, chickens… and she had to get up and pour herself another cup because that was just so sweet and she was a weak, _weak_ woman. What kind of man just sits down and draws a chicken? She risked another glance and almost choked up at the look on Charles’ face. He was looking at something very precious and he had no idea she could tell.

They both were rather smitten, and she liked to think she was not half as obvious as Mister Smith was. She realized another man took a part of her heart, unknowingly, and she had to turn away once more, this time overcame with a sudden wave of sadness. This all was going to end very soon and once again she would stay on her own, only the cursed rat for company.

She had her scrapbook nearly done, some dried herbs and notes she had scribbled down when Charles racked his brain for anything she might need to know. Herbs and other plants they had not found were in the second part of the book, little colorful drawings by Arthur’s hand.

She had two criminals in her house, and by putting a journal and a few colors in front of them, she made them behave almost like children they probably never had the luck to be in the first place. They bickered like an old married couple and Arthur looked fascinated by the colors, trying out all of them, smiling at the results.

“You don’t find these at the general store,” he snickered, so caught up in the activity he had no chance of noticing the looks he was receiving from his companions, and thank god for that because he would stop the second he saw them. “Jack would’ve loved them,” he said and suddenly, his face fell. They all could feel the temperature in the room dropping a few degrees and Charlotte was forced to sober up sooner than she expected. She knew, by the look both men had exchanged, that she would be all alone by tomorrow morning.

She watched them saddle their horses and felt cold squeezing her insides, fearing this was the last time she saw them both alive. Arthur’s eyes widened up suddenly and his hand flew up to his head.

“My hat,” he said in explanation as he hurried into the house again. Charlotte let out a sigh of relief and smiled when she heard Charles behind her do the same.

“Mister Smith,” she said, and it was too weak and too quiet, but she knew she had his attention even without turning around. “Charles,” she tried again, looking over her shoulder. “I just want you to know that you both are welcome here anytime. If you find yourself in a… tight spot… my door is always open for you. I am a terrible hunter but I am told I am not the worst company.”

She made sure to look at the man properly, longer than usual, so he would understand that it was not only a polite offer every host was expected to say to his guests. She used his own language to try and get the message across, and she got a small nod in thanks. Arthur came back and thanked her for her patience, her help, her kindness.

She squeezed his hands in hers and smiled.

Both of them on horses, she waved at them, fighting back her tears but feeling satisfied Arthur held himself in the saddle without any visible struggle.

“Oh,” Arthur turned around behind the gate, “I forgot – should I shoot that rat before we go?”

“No need! It will keep me company in the meantime,” she called back. Arthur shrugged at that.

“You are in good hands then,” he replied and smirked, and there was some undertone in that smile she couldn’t quite decipher. “Micah is a good rat name,” he said and laughed as if he heard the best joke ever, tipping his hat at her in goodbye. Charles just frowned and slapped Arthur’s shoulder, more of a butterfly’s kiss than a slap, really, but even at the distance, she could see that his mouth was curving into a smile at the words. Maybe some inside joke, she mused, waving them off.


End file.
